


Not an Excuse

by GrngrDngr



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Backstory, Canon Era, Italian Racetrack Higgins, M/M, Trans Racetrack Higgins, i take the delanceys canon personalities and shoot them in an alleyway, literally hordes of background newsies, oscar is baby boy, semi-angst, theres gonna be ableism but dont even worry about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrngrDngr/pseuds/GrngrDngr
Summary: “You shouldn’t be callin’ people lousy shrimps, Oscar. Unless you’re referrin’ to the family resemblance in your brudda here.”Morris and Oscar Delancey are literally the worst. But maybe they could be something better.





	Not an Excuse

“Shh.”

Morris walked down the back alleyways of Manhattan, dragging his sobbing baby brother behind him.

Oscar was miserable, snivelling and hiccuping, white sleeves hard with dried snot and tears. They’d been walking for hours. Morris knew where they were going, he knew who they needed to find, but it was easy to get lost when every building had the same broken concrete and crumbling foundation and rusty fire escape and he couldn’t read, couldn’t understand the street signs; Morris grumbled to himself and turned another corner.

Oscar wasn't helping either. He would keep stopping, planting his feet in the ground and wailing for mom and dad against Morris’ grip, and Morris would have to crouch down to his level and carry him ’till he got heavy again. And that would just trigger the sobbing again, and Morris wouldn't be able to think again, and the cycle would repeat.

 

Eventually, it got too dark to carry on. Morris looked around; they were in front of a strip of buildings, shops. Clothesline’s crisscrossed the alley opposite the strip, and other kids, much dirtier and scarier looking and older than them, were sleeping and loitering in the street.

“Come on,” Morris told Oscar in a hushed voice, and Oscar, who had been hypnotized by the older boys on the street, started sniffling again as he was tugged toward the shelter of a fire escape stairwell.

Morris let Oscar go under first, knees pulled up to his chest as he sat underneath. Oscar glared up at his brother.

“It’s dirty!”

“Yeah, well. It’s also safe from freezin’. But if you wanna sleep under the stars be my guest. Let the other kids eat you.”

“They won’t-!” Oscar almost protested, then whimpered and scooted back under shelter with a scowl.

Morris sat down, back against the base of the stairwell. He stared up at the moon, suddenly feeling... Well, _feeling_. Without Oscar screaming at him, he could think.

Ugh.

Oscar was right.

It was dirty.

He leaned back, pushing his hat down over his eyes.

 

 

 

“Hey.”

Morris slowly opened his eyes, blinking wearily up at the pale morning sky.

“Hey!”

Morris flinched, gaze shifting to look at the tall street boy standing over him.

He stood up quickly, backing away from the stairwell.

The other boy stepped towards him, staring at him in scrutiny.

Morris stared back, eyes hard, back straight, shoulders popped out to widen his frame.

The boy was skinny yet broad, dark from the sun, wearing a nice vest and a clean shirt. He had a cigar pinned between two fingers at his side.

“You new here?” The boy asked, squinting.

“... new where?”

The boy hesitated, opening and closing his mouth.

“B-uh, here! New York, Manhattan, the _street_ ,” he said, puffing himself up.

“What’s it to you?”

There was a pause, and the newsboy smirked a little.

“See you got a baby brother.”

Morris looked behind his shoulder; Oscar was still sleeping, curled up under the stairs. He was really dusty. Morris looked back at the other kid.

“We’re not new anywhere. We’re, uh-- we’re travelling.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that.”

“Why are you talkin’ to me?”

Morris huffed.

The other boy put his hands up in mock defence.

“Woah, woah, come on. Jus’ bein’ friendly. Plus, uh, a little heads up.”

Morris still scowled.

“You, uh, you really are travellin’, huh?”

Morris sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Trying to.”

“What-what’s that mean, ‘trying to’? You just half-assing it?”

“Y-No! It’s just hard, walkin’ around all day with a little kid. He’s a crybaby.”

The kid looked over Morris’ shoulder, smiling at the sleeping Oscar.

“Heavy sleeper.”

Morris stepped closer to the other kid, still not letting up his scowl.

“Back off.”

The kid snorted into his hand incredulously.

“Woah. Jus’ makin’ conversation. And, an observation; you don’t know where you’re going, do ya?”

“I know where I’m going! I- Uh—“

The kid laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, I see that. Listen, I can help you out. Don’t wanna make that little kid hafta walk around all day again. I mean,” he gestured back to Oscar, still curled up and snoring.

“He’s always like that,” Morris snapped in defence.

“He’s always sleeping?”

“Don’t act stupid.”

“Listen, pal, c’mon. Where ya headed?”

Morris sighed to himself, opening his mouth to respond, when Oscar slowly stirred from his sleep and sat up, bumping his head on the stairs. Morris turned.

Oscar’s lip quivered, like he was going to start crying again, before he caught sight of the new boy. His eyes widened, and he crawled out from under the stairs, slowly shuffling over to Morris like a prey animal and clinging onto his side, staring up at the street kid.

The kid crouched down, grinning at Oscar.

“What do they call you, kid?”

Oscar stared at him, eyes still wide.

Finally, he said, "Oscar."

"Oscar, huh? How old are you?"

"Uh, almost 10!"

"Wo-hoah, we got a big boy here."

"How old are you?"

"13. Hey, since we's introducing ourselves,” Racetrack prodded, resting a hand on Morris’ shoulder.

Morris glanced down at Oscar, a protective hand ruffling his hair.

"My name's Morris. Delancey. 14."

“Hey, Lower East Side!”

Morris looked at Race blankly.

"... Nevermind. Nice to meetcha, Mo," the kid said, grinning as he stuck out a hand. Morris ignored it, instead staring the kid in the eyes.

"You forgot your name."

"Ah... Right." The kid sucked his teeth, hands retreating back to his pockets.

"Race. Racetrack. 'Least, that's what everyone calls me. On a 'counta 'cause I'm always at the ponies. The track."

Morris grunted in affirmation, while Oscar's eyes lit up.

"Racetrack's not a real name!"

"You bet it ain't! That's what makes it great. You want a name like that, you gotta stick around here for a while."

Oscar looked at Racetrack in wonderment, when Morris took him by the hand again.

"Well. We've gotta start goin', right, Oz?"

"But I wanna stay with Racetrack! He's fun!"

Racetrack laughed.

"Don't hear me objectin'. But your big brudda, he's takin' you on a trip, right? Don't wanna get in the way of that."

Oscar ripped his arm out of Morris' grip, slumping on the ground and pouting. He crossed his arms with a scowl.

"I don't wanna! He doesn't know where he's going!"

"Hey, that ain't true!"

Racetrack tsked, helping Oscar back up with a hand.

"Don't matter if it ain't. Seems that way to both of us, huh, Oscar? So's what I'm thinking,” Racetrack began, turning to Morris, “is that you might wanna take my directions. Just so your brother don't get too discouraged."

Morris gathered Oscar back up beside him, the younger kid still pouting. He sighed in frustration, then looked back to meet Racetrack's gaze once again.

"You know this place well?"

"Back a' my hand, Momo."

Morris narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, fine. I'm supposed to be findin' my uncle. Pops said he has a crumby job sellin' newspapers at the world building."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, not having heard any of this before they left.

"What, like a newsboy?"

Racetrack perked up a little before Morris shut it down;

"No, not a newsboy. He must be in his thirties or somethin'. Ancient. You know what he looks like, Oz."

Racetrack let the words process, then...

"Oh, no," he muttered, lip curled up in mock disgust.

"His name Weasel?"

Morris knit his brows together, nodding.

"Yeah, yeah, _Wie_ -sel! How'd you know?"

Racetrack grimaced.

"I can't believe you're related to him. He's a jackass."

“Jackass,” Oscar echoed impishly.

Racetrack looked up to the sky.

"Huh. Bell should be ringing soon. I can take you to him.”

 

 

Oscar and Morris had never seen so many kids in one place. Morris couldn't count them- couldn't count past 19- but it was an impressive mob. Racetrack had a hand on Morris’ back, guiding him around the bulk of the newsboys at the circulation gate.

Locked, still.

"Hey, hey, step aside, clear a path! Move it!"

Race hollered. Morris was surprised by how far his voice carried.

Morris quickly grabbed Oscar's hand as Race pushed him through the crowd, right into the gate.

"Damn it!"

Morris lurched away from the gate, rubbing his sore browline with a hand. He turned on his heel to face Race, grabbing his shirt and pulling him towards him. Race sucked his teeth nervously, eyes wide.

"Watch where you're pushing! What's the point of us being at the front?"

Racetrack shrugged out of Morris’ grip, hands raised in a not-guilty gesture.

"Gotta get some extra papes for this. Figure if I’m first he'll be in a better mood."

He paused, putting a hand to his chin.

"How's he your uncle? Dad's brother, mom's brother..?"

"Uh... Our mom's."

"Beautiful."

 

A little, freckled kid appeared at the other side of the gate, wordlessly undoing the latch and pulling it open.

Instantly, the newsboys flooded in, Racetrack at the front of the pack.

Race, Morris’ hand still tight in his grip, pulled the two boys up the stairs to the circulation desk. The wooden screen behind the bars was lifted up, and a man stood alone behind the counter, heaving up a last palette of newspapers onto the counter.

"Weasel! Did you miss me?"

"Wiesel, Racer. How many papes?"

"Oh, let's say... two hundred."

Wiesel whistled as he moved to count the papers.

“That’s more than usual. What, you run into money?”

Racetrack grinned, resting his elbows on his side of the desk wordlessly.

Wiesel looked back at him, quirking a brow.

“...The dollar?”

Race chuckled, throwing an arm around Morris’ neck and gathering him up next to him.

"Tell ya what, Wiesel; if you spot me the two hundred, I'll give you your sister's, uh, first-and-second borns."

He squeezed his arm around Morris affectionately.

The man opened his mouth, then closed it again, staring between Racetrack's smug face, and Morris. Morris and Oscar; Oscar had both elbows up on the counter, trying to hoist himself up so he could see.

Wiesel set aside a stack of newspapers, which Racetrack immediately relieved him of, redistributing half of it around to a mob of younger newsboys who swarmed around him like mice. He took his own half and clapped Morris on the back, stepping back to watch.

Wiesel looked down the line of newsboys. Race smirked at him, putting his cigar to his mouth, while the rest of the newsboys stared in near silent confusion, save for the few boys still fighting over the half-stack of papes.

Morris felt his neck grow hot- he took Oscar’s hand, pulling him in front of him, then put both hands on his shoulders.

“Uncle Wiesel. Uh-...”

Morris paused. He looked behind him, to the hordes of newsboys staring at him. He rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat anxiously as he turned back to face his uncle.

”Our dad told us to come here if-... To find you if anything happens, ” Morris explained in a small voice.

 

For a while, Wiesel didn’t say anything. He stared between Morris and Oscar, swallowed a lump down his throat.

”I- Uh...”

He fingered his cigar, hyperaware of every newsie’s eyes on him.

Race, sensing the tension, hopped up behind the brothers, putting his arms around Morris’ shoulders.

He grinned up at Wiesel.

”I understand you got’sta distribute, huh? I’ll babysit these fellas, free of charge, come back for the evening edition. Sound good?”

Wiesel, less sweaty, nodded shakily and waved Race off.

 

 

”I resent bein’ babysat,” Morris muttered.

He walked at a slow pace behind Oscar as Racetrack hawked headlines in front of them.

”Extra, extra! ’Guttersnipe Sent ta th’ Big House’- thank ya, ma’am,” Race tipped his hat, handing off a paper to a sweet looking older woman, grinning pleasantly.

Oscar skipped after the older newsboy, memorizing the headlines he spouted, beaming wide after every sale he made; he was in complete awe.

 

“Extra, extra— Uhhh... ‘Body Found in Boston Harbour!’”

 

“‘Spanish Casualties Grow!’”

 

“‘...A Reverend had a birthday…’ That’s news?”

 

Every once in a while, Race would give Oscar a paper, and just looking like a scrawny little newsie would draw the ladies on their way to the market towards them.

Eventually, Race’s stack dwindled down to a few, the sun grew high in the sky, and his pockets grew heavier with pennies.

Oscar dawdled in the street as Race continued on walking, and Morris let out a grunt as he bumped into his little brother. Oscar planted in place, scrunching up his untucked shirt in his hands.

“Morris...” Oscar whimpered, turning to stare up at him with wide eyes.

Morris sighed loudly.

”Hey, Race,” Morris shouted, his voice carrying further than he thought it would.

Racetrack stopped, turning to look at the two brothers further behind him.

“Ya fellas gonna keep up or what?”

Morris crammed his hands into his pockets, huffing to himself. He looked sternly down to Oscar.

“Tell him.”

Oscar hesitated, then turned on his heel and sprinted over to Race.

He took his cap off and folded it up in his hands.

“Um... Mister Racetrack?”

Race snorted into his hand, looking down at Oscar fondly.

“Yeah?”

“...It’s almost afternoon, right?”

Racetrack leant back on his heels, lifting his cap to look at the sun. He whistled.

“Yeah, about so. Why?”

“Um... Are you hungry?”

A snicker.

“Sure.”


End file.
